


Ficlets From Tumblr

by TheGreatLibraryFangirl (Mazeem)



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Bruises, Depression, Divided Loyalties, Found Family, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Morgan Hault Lives, Panic Attacks, Protectiveness, Recovery, Scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26893864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazeem/pseuds/TheGreatLibraryFangirl
Summary: Bits and pieces from Tumblr. Most of them were written before Sword and Pen came out.Various different flavours of angst.First chapter: A chance comment by Glain sets Thomas off on a miserable few hours. (Depression).Second chapter: Thomas continues to have a bad time. Khalila tries to help. (Panic, burns scars).Third chapter: Dario's turn to be comforted by Khalila (Anxiety, self-hatred).Fourth chapter: Dario suffers an injury in a battle and Khalila isn't coping well. Morgan defuses the situation. (Denial, ignoring self-care, threats of violence)Fifth chapter: Retconning Sword and Pen's retcon, or, vignettes where Dario's injuries are dwelt on.
Relationships: Dario Santiago/Khalila Seif, Morgan Hault & Khalila Seif, Thomas Schreiber & Khalila Seif
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

“Watch it, Goliath,” Glain retorts, as Thomas nearly backs into her. They’re both carrying boxes stacked full of Jess and Morgan’s possessions. Being made use of as the muscle for the house move.

That hits him too sharp and too deep for rationality, and he groans at himself. 

“I’ll do my best,” he responds, mild and easy because it’s always, always better backing down than starting a confrontation. 

He puts his box down carefully then immediately heads back inside, to try and ignore the spreading chill inside him at what his ridiculous brain perceives as a rejection; a criticism; a nasty dig.

And it’s none of those things. He knows it’s not. It doesn’t help.

He rescues Jess and Dario, who are trying to manoeuvre a wardrobe through a doorway too narrow for it. Hands Jess his screwdriver. 

He knows Glain would be horrified and guilty to know that he can feel exactly where the tears are buried, rising through the shivering, sharp ice inside him. But his brain is awful and terrible and he imagines telling her anyway, and the satisfaction it would bring.

(It wouldn’t bring satisfaction. He knows that. But the daydream helps, a little. Notice me. Don't notice me. A familiar refrain.)

He answers Nic’s call for assistance, and together they lift a cabinet. It would be much easier to dismantle that too, but he needs the strain right now to ease the tightness in his chest. 

Hard work done, there are two hours before they’re all due at Khalila and Dario’s for a lavish dinner. 

The sting is fading to numbness. He crashes on his bed, still with his shoes on. Maybe sleeping will help.

Wakes an hour and fifteen minutes later. He’s going to be late.

The sleep doesn’t seem to have helped much, he thinks sadly, as he shoves a fresh shirt on and drags a comb through his hair. Oh well. It’ll wear off. 

He realises too late that the sleep and isolation has, in fact, _actively_ not helped when Dario makes a joke and it takes a massive effort just to smile. 

Dario stares straight at him, seeing it.

Thomas can’t bring himself to care.

God, he hates this bit. When it feels like there’s glass between him and the rest of the world. Hell, between him and the rest of him. When he can tell exactly how he’d normally react to things but he just … can’t, not without filling himself full of tearful, fizzing adrenalin from the effort.

And everyone can tell. And everyone is watching him, round the table, as he eats silently and manages small smiles for their jokes and their stories and their beautiful luminous love that he just can’t feel right now.

Morgan and Khalila are flanking him and that can’t be accidental.

He’s pretty sure everyone must be talking with their eyes, because Dario would have said something by now. Jess too. But instead it’s Wolfe who, in a quiet moment, raises his eyebrows wordlessly.

Thomas shrugs. He doesn’t keep his voice down. It’s low enough as it is right now, an effort enough as it is right now, and hell, everyone’s listening anyway.

“Just a silly thing. It’ll pass.”

Wolfe nods, and returns to his food. 

And gradually it does lift. The more he tries, the easier it gets, until by the end of the meal he feels better. He still can’t laugh, and his smiles still feel too wide and too still, but it’s better.

It’ll pass. This silly, tiny thing. His stupid brain chemistry. It’ll pass.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cracked my phone screen for the first time ever and I'm devastated, posting for that serotonin!

Thomas? Khalila’s voice shook Thomas out of his thoughts. “I’m making myself a drink; would you like one?”

“Um.” Thomas rubbed his beard and tried to gather his thoughts. “Just a glass of water, please.”

He wasn’t doing very well at tracking time right now; she seemed to have only been gone for a few seconds when she returned with hot coffee in one hand and a glass of water in the other. 

“I thought we could both do with a short break,” she said. Her voice was cheerful but her eyes were serious.

Thomas shrank from her insight and merely said,

“Yes,” as he took his water.

They chatted for a while. Quite frankly it turned into gossip quickly, and while normally Thomas would be a little dismissive of gossip, it was nice to have a distraction from the fact that his mind felt like a progressively thinning glass sheet over a vortex.

Yes, the chat was steadying. Reassuring. So when she reached over to take his glass away, he said,

“Don’t be silly, I’ll do that,” and squeezed her hand as he got to his feet.

She winced and hissed and made an unmistakable if quickly aborted attempt to pull her hand free. 

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

He’d spent his whole life being aware of his strength in comparison to those around him, but the many ways in which he couldn’t trust himself after Rome meant that he regularly woke from nightmares where he had hurt or killed one of his friends. 

“I’m sorry!” His chair shuddered as he sat heavily back into it. Already he was finding it hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt-“

Khalila surged out of her chair and cupped his face with both hands.

“Thomas, it’s not you. That wasn’t you. You’re fine. You were gentle.”

So was she, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs. He stared despairingly into her determined dark eyes. “It was only me,” she said firmly. “Just my hand. The burn scars are painful today. That’s all.”

He let her lead his breathing for a minute or two, until he stopped feeling like he was breathing through a straw, then he sat back.

She let her hands fall from his cheeks to his shoulders, and then along to grasp both his hands as she too regained her seat. It felt like her light touch was the only thing holding him in place.

It wasn’t me, he told himself, trying to embed the knowledge somewhere secure in his mind, as a foundation to build upon, but he didn’t have many stables places in there right now. So he gave up and turned it outwards. Distractions. 

“I didn’t know about your hands.” He could feel the different textures against his palm. He’d noticed them several times before, given how tactile she was, but he’d never really considered any further implications. “May I see?”

“Of course.” She released her left hand and laid it palm up on his knee. He leaned forwards for a better look. 

Her palm was criss-crossed with raised red lines. One thick line trailed down over the underside of her wrist, and seemed to pull the surrounding skin towards it like a snag in fabric. It was outlined by small, healing scabs.

“Is that the most painful part?” he asked, hovering his finger just over it.

She nodded. “It gets warm when it’s bad. And it itches, and I just can’t stop scratching.” She gave a little deprecating laugh and indicated the scabs. 

“Do you have any cream for it?” It was a stupid question. Of course she would have treatment for it. But … he remembered his mother fussing over him when he’d burnt his leg in hot water as a child. It was a better memory than most of what was in his head right now. 

“I do, yes.” As ever, her earnest expression made him feel like no question was too stupid. “And Dario does a truly fantastic hand massage.”

Thomas smiled. “Good.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get the kinktober stuff done over the weekend that I wanted, so here's some more character angst set in a nebulous future which may or may not be compliant with Sword and Pen 😂
> 
> Dario this time.

Dario jumped as Khalila said a cheerful hello on her way to the bathroom.

“Morning,” he said, belatedly. Her footsteps stopped, and he winced. 

“Did you not sleep well again?”

The concern in her voice made him twitch. But then, everything was making him twitch, that was why he’d been sat here staring dazedly out the window since long before dawn. 

“Not really.”

The floor creaked, just once, as she clearly took a step forwards and changed her mind. 

“I’ll get you a coffee when I’m out.”

“Thanks.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

He’d been doing that all night as well – it was greasy now. He should join Khalila in the bathroom and clean up, but he’d got himself to the point where the thought of doing anything other than staying exactly where he was made anxiety pull tight and sore in his chest. 

Not that his current position was perfect. He wanted to be curled up tight, but doing so meant that he couldn’t sigh away new pulses of anxiety. 

She was out of the shower and moving around. He listened to every little sound as she made them both drinks. The sounds made his skin crawl, and the cogs in his chest crunch together. 

He accepted the cup she handed him. She didn’t let go of the cup – and he realised why a second later when he took a sip.

“That’s not coffee!” he snapped. Had she not instantly taken the cup back from him, he might have thrown it like a child. 

“It’s not,” she said calmly. She’d showered and her hair was damp and cold when it brushed against his arm. He tried to shift away from it. “It’s chamomile.”

“I know what it is! I don’t like it!” It felt like he didn’t have control over his own mouth. This was a horrible, ineffective way to burn off tension. 

“I know, darling. But I think you need it.” The ‘darling’ set his teeth on edge, and the proprietary hand on his wrist made all the hairs on his arm rise.

He shook her off. He needed to keep the shredded vestiges of his control to himself right now. 

“Fuck off,” he mumbled, staring back out of the window. He wasn’t brave enough to look her in the eye while he was saying that. 

Of course, he wasn’t brave at all, that was the whole … the whole _point_. 

She sighed and stood up and he caught his breath against a painful wave of guilt.

Listened to her footsteps. Into the bedroom and out of it again.

He felt like he was shaking but a quick glance at one hand showed that he wasn’t.

Brain making absolutely everything up again, as usual. 

“Sorry,” he blurted as she approached again. 

“It’s all right,” she replied from behind him. “We’ll talk about it later.”

To his surprise, she put a pillow behind his head and a blanket around his shoulders.

Handed him the stupid tea again. 

“Khalila …”

She smiled at him, and something inside him loosened, just a fraction. Just enough for a deep breath that wasn’t a sigh and didn’t feel like it was straining against a cage. The blanket was warm and the pillow was soft. 

“I made the tea cool enough for you to just pour down your throat. Drink it, darling. Try to sleep.”

She got up to pull the blinds at the window and he was taken aback by a vicious surge of panic that slammed his throat shut and made him cough to try and hide it. 

“Kha-Khalila,” he spluttered, helplessly. 

“Blinds, blinds, one second,” she said quickly.

He hated himself for the worry that bled into her voice just then.

Well. Hated himself _more_.

“Right.” She climbed into his lap, with her legs over the arm of the chair, and curled up against him. It was a slightly awkward position but it made everything a bit better.

“Sorry.” He shut his eyes, just for a moment. “I don’t know what –“

“Yes you do,” she replied, her lips soft against his forehead. “This is the third night in a row you’ve barely slept. You’ve reached the point where you’re just anxious about your anxiety and everything’s feeding on itself. We’ll talk about it later.”

She raised the cup to his mouth. “Drink.” He did.

It was disgusting, as expected. 

“Good boy.” He looked at her, and her eyes were wide and embarrassed. That had slipped out accidentally. His urge to snap back faded.

“Am I?” He tried to laugh but it sounded like a sob.

She had started massaging the sore spot on his chest and it was awful and wonderful at the same time. 

“Ssh. Yes, you are.” Her hair was dangling against his face, but it felt cool and refreshing this time. “Sleep now. Just sleep.”

And eventually, after several jolting, heart-racing false starts, like the ones that had driven him from their bed in the first place, he did.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This particular nebulous future ficlet is set within a What-If? thought up by Eli before Sword and Pen came out, in which Dario loses his leg to a Ray during a battle. They had lots of excellent ideas about sacrifice and redemption and other themes, but me? I'm an angst goblin, and a whumper. So here we are.
> 
> No gore! No description of amputation! Only Khalila being a bit ... um ... overwhelmed. In a protective-murder sort of way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this requires a little bit of explanation. This is set within a What-If? thought up by [Eli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedharlot/pseuds/eli-wray) before Sword and Pen came out, in which Dario loses his leg to a Ray during a battle. They had lots of excellent ideas about sacrifice and redemption and other themes, but me? I'm an angst goblin, and a whumper. So here we are. 
> 
> No gore! No description of amputation! Only Khalila being a bit ... um ... overwhelmed. In a protective-murder sort of way.

Morgan tried the door. It was open, despite the darkness inside.

“Khalila, you shouldn’t be in here,” she whispered to her friend’s back. 

“I know, thank you.” Khalila’s voice was soft and flat. And tired, Morgan thought, which steeled her resolve. She stepped into the hospital room and closed the door behind her. Khalila faded to a mere shape in the dark.

“Everyone’s worried about you. You need to rest.” 

Khalila completely ignored her words, reaching out instead to brush her fingers over the mattress next to Dario’s hand. 

“He woke up a few hours ago. They weren’t expecting it. Thought the sedative would hold him for longer.” She sighed. It rasped, just a little. “When he woke he was feverish, he was in pain, he couldn’t remember what had happened or appreciate where he was. He was so frightened.” 

Her voice cracked into a sob then, and Morgan put her hand nervously on her shoulder. Khalila shrugged it away. 

“If I hadn’t been here, where I’m not supposed to be, they would have used several staff members to restrain him for long enough to shove more sedative in, and he would have fallen unconscious again knowing only fear. But I was here, and I could calm him.” 

Morgan had never heard her accent so thick, or her voice so cold and strained.

“So I will not leave here until he has returned to his senses and if you put your hands on me again, Morgan, knowing what you can do with them, I will do my best to stab you.” 

Morgan took a careful step backwards, and strained her eyes in the darkness to try and see what on earth Khalila could have to hand. 

“I won’t touch you again. I’m sorry.” That threat had sent her heart racing and her blood running cold because she could tell Khalila meant it. She’d convinced herself she was Dario’s only protector and everybody else was the enemy. All too clearly, Morgan could imagine a dismissive Medica assuming the threat was empty, or that the tiny girl in front of them posed no danger. Or worse, not even seeing her at first in the dark, and then making some kind of movement that Khalila perceived as a danger … “Please, put down whatever you’ve got. Please. You won’t be of any use to Dario if the Garda drag you away.” 

“I’ll kill a few of them first too,” Khalila muttered. Morgan’s breath snagged in her chest. Oh, this was bad. 

But to her surprise and utmost relief, Khalila turned and held out a purloined scalpel. Morgan took it, in a convoluted way that ensured their fingers made no potentially threatening skin-to-skin contact. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Khalila sighed, a long, exhausted hiss, and bent slowly and awkwardly over to rest her head on her hand. 

“I’m not planning on killing anyone. I promise.” Her voice was slow and soft now, like it had been when Morgan had first entered. Exhaustion. Maybe more than that. “I’m sorry. I just …” She trailed off and didn’t finish. 

“It’s ok,” Morgan said, automatically. “Can I touch you? I promise I won’t drain your energy, or do anything with quintessence.” 

“Fine.” 

So Morgan gently took Khalila’s free hand and squeezed it. It was cold. They sat silence for several minutes. Morgan listened to the rattle of Khalila’s breathing and didn’t like it at all. The Medicas had treated the damage from her slicing chest injury, but, well, things could reopen, couldn’t they? 

“I’m worried about you, Khalila.” It was only essentially what she’d said when she’d entered the room, but they seemed to have reached an understanding now so she hoped it could go better this time around. “If we push these two chairs together, do you think you could lie down? If you wanted, I could stay here to watch Dario.” 

There. Several compromises, all at once. 

Khalila made a thoughtful noise in response, then went so silent and still that Morgan wondered if she’d started dropping off to sleep there and then. 

“I’ll try.” Morgan let go of her hand and pushed their chairs together. They were wide, padded chairs that at some point somebody had obviously stolen from the corridor outside, and hopefully they would be satisfactory for a sleeping surface. 

Khalila started to lower herself down onto her good side, at which point the little tiny whimpers confirmed how much pain she was in. Morgan put a hand against her shoulder and braced it. “Can I help?” 

Khalila’s breathing was uneven. “I think it’s the muscular tension. If I try to relax, can you just … control the fall?” 

“Right. Yes. Of course.” 

That was much more difficult than it sounded for both of them and by the time Khalila was lying flat, she was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” Morgan stroked her head, and tried to rescue the utterly disarrayed headscarf, smoothing and tucking her tangled hair as best as she could. 

“I’m the idiot,” Khalila said eventually. It was as if the pain had roused her a little. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I can’t leave him all alone, Morgan, I _can’t_.” 

She sobbed, and then caught her breath and reached for her side. 

“I know.” Morgan had a very bad feeling about how much pain Khalila was in. She slid her hand down from Khalila’s head, over her shoulder, and then onto her injured side. Sure enough, it was wet. “You know your stitches have gone.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Mm. That happened a little while ago.” She sounded woozy. 

“Khalila! You lost a lot of blood earlier!” 

“My husband _lost his leg_.” Ah. There was irrational Khalila again. Morgan double-checked that the scalpel was still in her inside jacket pocket, well out of Khalila’s reach. 

“I have a plan, all right?” She went back to stroking Khalila’s head. “Because you won’t be able to look after Dario if you’re too weak from blood loss, will you?” And from exhaustion. And low blood sugar and dehydration, most likely, thinking back to the sequence of events. It was a miracle she was still awake. “I want to go and get a Medica –“ 

“No.” Khalila tried to shove herself upright but halted halfway up with a yelp.

Morgan kept stroking her head and shoulder, very gently pushing her back down again. “Let me finish my plan. I also want to go and get Santi or Glain in here. A proper guard, ok? So that you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

She kept her voice very low. Soothing. Channelling Annis. It wouldn’t be Santi, he wouldn’t leave Wolfe, but it sounded good. Glain was the obvious choice, although exhaustion was playing havoc with her cognitive function right now. 

Jess? Not in a million years. Khalila could wrap him around her little finger and they all knew it. If Khalila would accept an unfamiliar soldier that Santi vouched for, that would be ideal. 

“Once the Medica has sorted your stitches, and possibly a rehydration drip, we can discuss getting you a bed in here.” Her hand smoothed over Khalila’s skin, again and again. “That sounds like a good solution, doesn’t it?” 

Khalila made a muffled agreeing sound, then wriggled. It looked deliberate; using pain to wake herself up again. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Excuse me, at what point in that plan did I suggest that you were?” Morgan put her hand on Khalila’s cheek. “You’ll just stay here and watch Dario. I’ll go and sort everything out. I promise if anyone does anything they shouldn’t, I will knock them out.” She wiggled her fingers in front of Khalila’s eyes, and got a faint giggle in response. “Do we have a deal, my dear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a 'no-one else cares' note, I am SO fucking glad to have this finally posted safely. I kept losing it on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a couple of vignettes written after Smoke and iron but before Sword and Pen was published, I delved into Dario's injuries and loyalties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It amuses me greatly that I wrote these before Sword and Pen (probably 8 - 10 months before) because this is also in a way wish-fulfilment for what didn't happen in Sword and Pen. At the end of S&I Dario was too injured to stand, and yet by S&P it was retconned in favour of the headlong plot. Which is fine, but, anyway. 
> 
> One way it might have gone.

Khalila was familiar with the concept of akai ito, the red string of fate tying you to your soulmate, from her enjoyment of Japanese poetry, and she swore she could feel it pulling at her little finger as she walked the Library corridors in the early hours of the morning. 

The discussions about the future of the Library were over, or at least had been halted for the night. Nothing concrete had been decided on at such an early stage, but she was encouraged by how many high-ranking and influential Scholars seemed amenable to her words.

She had visited her family, made sure they were safe and housed in a suitable standard of accommodation (apparently Wolfe had organised that, she needed to thank him), and had a wholly inadequate conversation with them which would have to be expanded upon later. Her father and brother had been very concerned about hiding their bruises and hollow cheeks from her, and she’d let them maintain their dignity while bitterly laughing inside at how much worse she had seen. 

She had been good and dutiful and had done what needed to be done. Now, finally, praise Allah, finally, she was able to go to Dario. 

According to the messages in Khalila’s hastily borrowed Codex, Glain had taken it upon herself to guard Dario during the fight, and afterwards had dragged his protesting form to the Medicas, where he’d been ever since. 

_Is he tired?_ Khalila had asked nervously, as soon as she’d left the rooms where her family was staying. _Should I wait until tomorrow?_

 _Get down here before I have to actually tie him to the bed_ , Glain had replied, in short, sharp strokes. 

And now here she was, coming into the Medica wing and signing herself in as a visitor, following the directions to his room.

 _Of course he has a separate room_ , she thought with a semi-hysterical little giggle. _They’re lucky he didn’t ask for a whole suite and his own personal chef._

The corridor blurred into a twitchy smear of not-there-yet, but it was impossible to miss Glain standing outside the relevant door, in full guarding mode.

Khalila pulled her into a tight hug, which Glain allowed for a few seconds before disentangling herself. There were shadows under her eyes.

“Thank you,” Khalila said. Her voice trembled a little. “Thank you for looking after him when I couldn’t.”

Glain shrugged awkwardly. “I avoided strangling him, just for you.” She met Khalila’s eyes and gave her a quick nod. “I’ll be in the barracks quarters if you need me.”

“Get some rest,” Khalila called after her. She couldn’t see Glain’s face but she could imagine the eye-rolling reaction.

She opened the door. Resisted the wild, powerful urge to bound onto Dario's bed and wrap every inch of herself around him, and instead walked sedately to a waiting chair and drew it closer to the bed.

He looked somehow better and worse than when she’d last seen him, in a cold flash of horror in the middle of a battlefield when she thought he’d returned to her just in time for them to die together. Cleaner, but quieter. Still horrifyingly battered. 

There was an open Blank by his side. What could he be reading, at this time, with his injuries?

She made a questioning face at the Blank and he immediately handed her it, easily, as if they were still back in the Reading Room as brand new Scholars, with only the horror of Oxford behind them. Her eyes blur so much with tears that she couldn't see the words in front of her.

"Don't cry, _bella_." His voice held a rasp that she thought indicated exhaustion.

(She didn't want to think about what else might have roughened his throat.)

He took one of her hands and raised it to his mouth. It should have been lovely but all she could see was the red split in his lip, the dead nail on his hand.

* * *

Dario tried to get up from the sofa and winced. 

Khalila put her hand on his arm. “I’ll get up. What do you want?” 

He sat back and sighed. “Nothing. Stop hovering over me; I’m fine.” He hastened to take the sting out of his words by squeezing her hand. 

_You’re not fine_ , Khalila thought, reluctantly sitting back. It had taken them nearly fifteen minutes to find a position where they could both be in physical contact on the sofa without Dario’s face blanching in pain. 

His skin was practically coated with bruises; blue-black bloodstains that told her a clear and horrible story. There was a fingermark on his neck, most of a handprint wrapped around both wrists, part of a boot-print on his cheek, the butt of a gun marked high on his bicep. 

That was just what she could see on his face and arms; from the ginger way he was moving and breathing there were lots more hidden under his shirt that he was refusing to remove in front of her. 

One front lower incisor was chipped and the corners of his mouth were sore and bloody; she very much suspected they’d forced the barrel of the gun into his mouth but he didn’t want to talk about it and the idea made her feel simultaneously light-headed and flat-out murderous, so she let him stay quiet. 

He had five stitches almost exactly along his hairline on the left side. There was still dried blood in his hair there, despite his strenuous, painful efforts to get clean earlier. She reached over to pick at it, and despite watching her approach he still flinched far too hard when her hand landed on him. 

He flinched, she apologised, he snapped; they’d been going on like this all evening.

“I love you,” she said, instead of apologising. 

He drew in a quick, sharp breath then let it out in a sigh that seemed to go on forever. When he spoke, his voice was thick. 

“Come here.” He gently tugged at her arm. She looked down at his hand; bruised, grazed, split knuckles, one nail dead and black. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said. Her voice was very small. 

“Come on,” he repeated, and tugged again. She let him pull this time, and gingerly settled onto his lap. “You’re worth the pain,” he whispered, pulling her forwards until her lips brushed his. They kissed, gentle and tender. His mouth still tasted like blood.

* * *

Despite how worried she was about him, or possibly because of it, kissing him was wonderful. Being as close together as they physically could when they had been torn apart from each other so recently. Feeling the soft warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his stubble as proof that he was alive and safe and here.

She held herself very still and in very little actual contact, nervous of aggravating the unseen injuries under his shirt. Any weight on his chest was visibly painful.

He had no such concerns, and his hands were roaming deliciously over her whole back. One hand slid far lower than she would usually permit, and she tried to summon the will to tell him to stop, but thankfully he seemed happy to use her rear just as a convenient place to rest his hand.

‘Please,’ he whispered, as he put gentle pressure on her back to try and push her closer. 'You make me feel better.’

'You manipulative ass,’ she chided, carefully running her fingers through his hair. He smiled widely enough that it made him wince.

'You know me so well. My fiancee.’ He leaned up towards her and kissed her deep and hot, and she couldn’t help but respond to that. She tilted her head for a better angle, and to her horror her face collided with the swollen, bruised, apparently-not-broken part of his cheek.

He let out a dreadful stifled groan.

Ice gushed through every inch of her body and she tried to pull away, but to her surprise he restrained her with enough effort that she would have had to fight to get free.

'No. Stay. Stay here, Khalila, just…’ He guided her head to his opposite shoulder. She stared at the back of the sofa and listened to his suddenly ragged breathing and felt sick with guilt.

'I’m not going anywhere,’ she said as reassuringly as she could, and his grip relaxed.

She wanted to say all sorts of silly pointless things. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But she knew it would only frustrate him.

After a minute or so had gone by, his breathing steadied. She thought she recognised that pattern, though; it wasn’t peaceful.

'That’s made your headache worse, hasn’t it?’ She turned her head and body as carefully as she could. Yes, he’d gone white and still with his eyes closed, very much like he did during a migraine.

'It’ll die down,’ he said softly. 'Don’t go.’

If he said any more like that her heart was going to break.

'I won’t. It’s all right.’ She kissed a clean, clear patch of his cheek then settled her head with her lips next to his ear. 'Why would I leave you when I only just got you back? I thought I'd lost you.’ Her voice wobbled.

He made a faint agreeing hum. 'Didn’t think I was coming back. Thought I was going to be killed without seeing you again.’

'Ssh.’ She blinked tears out of her eyes. She’d been trying to ignore that herself. To stop herself crying, she recalled the information that the harassed Medica had sent them away with. 'Are you feeling dizzy?’

Dario sighed. 'My flower, I’m not going to suddenly worsen my concussion because you bumped a bruise.’ His hand was now resting on her hip, and he stroked it gently.

'Still.’ She took that wandering hand and kissed it. 'You need to rest.’

He grumbled in hoarse Spanish.

'If I come to bed with you, fully dressed, will you go to sleep?’

He opened his eyes and gave her a pale imitation of a leer. 'I’ll sleep with you anytime, mi amor.’

* * *

It took a few minutes for Dario’s headache to subside enough to allow him to stand, and by that point he’d lost the ability to pretend all the bruises and strains and things he wasn’t showing her weren’t affecting him. He looked washed-out and strained, and was gripping the furniture as he moved like his life depended on it. 

When he finally lay down, he virtually melted into the mattress.

“Oh God,” he mumbled, as she climbed behind him. “Why did I not do this before?”

“You were trying to pretend you were fine.” She rubbed the back of his head soothingly, carefully avoiding a lump. “Now please just get some sleep.” She pulled the sheet up over him for the extra weight and warmth he liked, and he cuddled into it like a child. 

“As you wish.” He fell asleep within minutes and was soon snoring loudly. 

She’d watched him sleep for maybe forty minutes when there came a loud knock at the door, and both her and Dario’s Codices pinged from the other room. 

Dario woke up on the second knock, abruptly, calling out in confusion and fright and flailing at his covers. He tried to sit up but gasped in pain. 

“Dario, it’s all right. You’re in bed. You’re safe. Someone’s just knocking at the door.” She tried to tug him round to look at her but he was tight and tense and couldn’t be moved. “Dario. It’s me. It’s Khalila. Look at me, please.”

The relief on his face as he saw her hit her like a blow to the chest. “Ssh." 

She kissed his cheek and stroked the back of his neck. He clumsily gripped her shoulders and mumbled Spanish swearwords into her shoulder. 

She could feel his pulse racing. "I’m here. Everything is fine. Someone’s just at the door." 

His gaze gradually sharpened again, even as she felt tremors start to build in him. 

"Who is it?” He rubbed his eyes and looked with sleepy confusion at his shaking hands. 

“I’ll go and see. Lie back. You’ve had a shock.”

His mouth worked for a second or two, and his hands clutched her. “Be careful." 

She smoothed his hair down over his forehead and nodded. It was a valid concern. 

She checked her Codex. It was Alvaro. 

The door had a peephole, and she saw it was indeed Alvaro out there. He was flanked by Lieutenant Botha, which made her heave a sigh of relief. 

"Ambassador, lieutenant.” She nodded her head towards them. “What brings you both here at this time?” A pointed reminder.

Botha ducked his head back at her, a little lower. “My apologies for disturbing you, Scholar Seif. I found Ambassador Santiago wandering the ground floor courtyard; he said he needed to find Scholar Santiago.”

She fixed Alvaro with a hard stare. “He’s not up for receiving guests right now, i’m afraid.”

“Not even family?” His tone was light and easy, but his eyes were intense, and his body language was a touch aggressive. 

Khalila raised her eyebrows. “He needs to rest.”

“May I come in and leave him a letter, then? And perhaps quench my parched throat while I’m writing?”

Khalila ground her teeth. She couldn’t say no to that without appearing very rude. Botha obviously sensed her discomfort, as he shifted his posture just a little, but Alvaro shifted his too. 

Even better! Now she had to invite him in to prevent a scene!

“Hurry up and be quiet about it.” May as well embrace the rudeness.

“I thought you had been recalled to Spain,” she whispered sharply as she closed the front door on Botha’s concerned face.

“The embassy was.” Alvaro’s eyes were still dark and intense. So like Dario’s. “I’m not here in that role.” He looked towards the bedroom. “Is he really indisposed?”

Anger flooded her. “As opposed to what?”

“Who’s there, Khalila?” Dario called from the bedroom. 

“Your second favourite family member, runt.”

“Varito!” Dario’s voice was suddenly sharper and more animated. There was rustling from the bedroom. “To what do I owe the honour, you piece of shit?”

Alvaro rolled his eyes, hard. “Don’t get up, you idiot. i’ll come in. Make yourself vaguely decent.” His gaze slid to Khalila, just a for split second, and she reflexively checked her headscarf.

“He’s _fully dressed_.” Khalila was vibrating with outrage. How dare he?

He had the grace to look embarrassed before he turned to hurry into the bedroom. 

There was a flurry of loud Spanish. She tiptoed nearer to see what she could make out, but then quite distinctly heard Dario warn, “Khalila speaks a bit of Spanish,” and the room fell dead silent. Signing.

When Alvaro eventually emerged, she shut the bedroom door firmly behind him and glared at him.

“What are you getting him involved in?” She barely recognised her own voice, it was so hard and low and sharp. 

Alvaro shrugged. “Right now, nothing. Merely an update on his health.”

“Don’t feed me that nonsense, Alvaro. I thought you had more respect for me than that.” She took a few steps closer, but Alvaro held his ground with ease. She felt very young and very small all of a sudden, and that only frustrated her. 

“We’re not quite on the same side.”

He didn’t respond, which was as good as an agreement.

“How dare you try to make him choose his allegiance while he’s so vulnerable?” It was a strong word, but it matched Dario right now. 

Alvaro pulled a face that she couldn’t interpret. “I would prefer not to do this,” he said, finally, “but I must, as must he.”

Khalila read between the lines. Family loyalty. The king. She went cold inside. 

“He is a Scholar of the the Great Library; he has the freedom to make his own choices!”

His expression softened with a kind of pitying amusement. “And what is the Great Library right now, Scholar Seif?”

“That’ll do, cousin.” Dario’s voice was soft and exhausted and when Khalila spun around he was leaning heavily on the doorframe to take the weight off his sprained ankle, but his eyes were hard and dark. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Who’s 'we’ in this?” Khalila snarled. Dario blinked at her tone and she saw the mask appear as he locked his expression down. 

“I’ll talk to _both_ of you later.” He stood there and stared at them like a wonky statue until Alvaro bobbed his head and flicked a sign or two at him and turned to leave. 

“My sincere apologies for disturbing your evening, Scholar Seif, Scholar Santiago.”

The door closed behind him. Khalila turned to Dario, who was still regarding her with silent, toneless defensiveness. 

“What have you agreed to?” Her voice was high and taut with worry. “What stupid plan have you joined in with now, without telling me? Given I had to rescue us all the last time you did this!”

“Nothing, right now.” He closed his eyes. “It should help everyone out in the end.” He swallowed. Swayed.

Khalila watched him for a long second, suddenly suspicious of everything, but no, he couldn’t fake the grey pallor of his skin. “Go to bed.”

He nodded, but didn’t move until she went to him and tucked her shoulder under his arm to take some of his leaden weight. Tried to soften her voice. Her fears. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I love you,” he said beseechingly to her as they stumbled back to the bed. 

She sighed. “Yes. I love you too.”

_You may love me, but where do your loyalties really lie, Dario?_


End file.
